You Don't Want To Know

Chapter 2


The lights flickered twice as Ava stood under the hot shower spray. Each time darkness flooded the bathroom, she tensed and placed a hand on the tiled shower wall, but fortunately the power didn’t go out. Thank God. That was the problem with this island, which was set off the coast of Washington with no access to the mainland except by private boat or a ferry that ran twice a day to Anchorville, weather permitting.

It had been a haven for her great-great-grandparents, Ava knew, who had settled here, commanded the largest chunk of real estate, and somehow, through logging and sawmilling, had made a fortune. When other people had settled on the island, Stephen Monroe Church had offered them lumber and supplies and, more importantly, jobs.

Ava had always wondered about the population back then. Why leave the comfort of the mainland? What had the settlers been running to . . . or, more likely, from?

Whatever their reasons, they had helped Stephen and his wife, Molly, construct this grandiose home, complete with three sets of stairs, three floors above ground (not counting the attic), and a basement now used for storage and Wyatt’s wine cellar and Jacob’s apartment. Built in the Victorian style on one of the highest points on the island, Neptune’s Gate had nearly a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view from its westerly turret, which rose over a widow’s walk. Hence it was a house of windows that winked and caught in the summer sunlight. This time of year, though, with the fog and rain, sleet and hail, the refracting rays were few and far between.

Scrubbing with lavender soap and some guaranteed-gentle shampoo, she washed the salt and grime from her skin and hair, letting the soothing water calm the fear that split her soul—fear and confusion about her son.

What had she been thinking earlier?

Noah hadn’t been on the dock.

It was just her willing, weak mind playing tricks on her, vestiges from her dream remaining to confuse her.

Yet the image of him standing in the rising mist, teetering on the edge of the dock, eerily real, still stayed with her.

It’s been two years . . . let him go.

She rinsed off, thinking that her son would be four years old now, had he survived.

Tears filled her eyes and her throat grew thick. She turned and faced the nozzle, letting warm water wash the damned tears away.

By the time she’d dressed and combed the tangles from her hair, she felt better. Rested. No longer balanced upon a mental precipice.

She was just walking out of the bathroom when she heard a tap on her bedroom door. “Ava?” her husband’s voice called softly as the door opened.

“I thought you were in Seattle,” she said.

“Portland.” His smile was thin, his features marred with worry, his sandy-colored hair rumpled as if he’d been forcing stiff fingers through it.

“Oh. Right.” She’d known he’d driven south. Wyatt’s client was from Seattle but had real estate holdings in Oregon and had some kind of lawsuit leveled against him.

“Doesn’t matter.” Wyatt stepped closer to her, and she tensed but didn’t back up, not even when he brushed an errant curl off her forehead, his fingertips warm and familiar as they grazed her skin. “Are you okay?” he asked, his hazel eyes dark with concern. That same old question that no matter how she answered, everyone had already come up with their own conclusions.

“I’d like to say fine, but . . .” She tipped her hand side to side. “Let’s just say I’m better than I was an hour ago.”

She remembered falling in love with him, or at least she thought she had. They’d met in college . . . yes, that was right. At a small private school near Spokane. That had been nearly fifteen years earlier. He’d been handsome and athletic and sexy, and those attributes hadn’t changed over the years. Even now, with his light brown hair mussed from raking his fingers through it and a day’s worth of whiskers darkening his chin, he was a good-looking man. Strapping. Bold. A take-no-prisoners attorney who now looked rumpled, his suit jacket wrinkled, his white shirt open at the throat, his tie loosened. Yes, indeed, Wyatt Garrison was still a sexy, attractive male.

And she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

“What happened?” Wyatt asked as he sat on the edge of the bed, on “his” side, the mattress sinking a bit under his weight. How many times had she lain in his arms in that very bed? How many nights had they made love . . . When had they stopped? “Ava?”

She snapped out of her reverie. “Oh. You know. The same thing.” She glanced to the window where she’d been certain she’d seen her son. “I thought I saw Noah. On the dock.”

“Oh, Ava.” He shook his head slowly. Sadly. “You’ve got to stop torturing yourself. He’s gone.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’ ” The mattress groaned as he climbed to his feet. “I thought you were getting better. When they released you from St. Brendan’s, the doctors were convinced you were on the road to recovery.”

“Maybe it’s just a bumpy one.”

“But it shouldn’t have U-turns.”

“I was getting better,” she said, preferring not to think of the hospital from which she’d been recently released. “I mean I am!” She swallowed hard, didn’t want to think about having to go back to the psych ward at the inland hospital. “It’s just the nightmares.”

“Have you seen Dr. McPherson lately?” Evelyn McPherson was the psychologist Wyatt had personally chosen upon Ava’s release from St. Brendan’s. He’d said it was because she practiced in Anchorville and was willing to visit Ava on the island, which made sense, but there was something about the woman that bothered Ava. It was as if she were listening too intently to her, was too damned concerned, as if Ava’s problems were hers. It was all too personal.

“Of course I’ve seen her. Didn’t she tell you?” When had it been? “Last week.”

His dark eyebrows lifted as if he didn’t believe her. “When last week?”

“Uh . . . Friday, I think. Yes, that was it.” Why was he doubting her? And why did he care? Ever since Noah’s disappearance, their marriage had been tenuous at best. Most of the time Wyatt was in Seattle on the mainland where he lived in a high-rise only a stone’s throw from the office where he was a junior partner in a prominent law firm. He specialized in tax law and investments.

She’d suspected that his interest in her had waned, that she was an embarrassment, a “crazy” woman and a wife best left concealed on a small island off the Washington coast.

“I was afraid I’d lost you.” He sounded sincere and her throat closed for a second.

“Sorry. Not this time.”

He looked as if she’d slapped him.

“Bad joke.”

“Very.”

She needed to change the subject and fast. “So, Austin Dern,” she said as she pulled the curtains shut. “You hired him?”

Wyatt nodded. “For the stock.” He threw Ava a glance. “Let’s face it. Ian’s really not cut out to be a ranch foreman, isn’t really a horseman and cattleman. I thought he could take over after Ned retired and moved to Arizona, but I was wrong.”

“I took care of the horses.”

“Once upon a time,” he said with a faint smile. “And even then you weren’t the best at keeping up the fence line or taking care of the brush or the barn roof or a frozen pump. Dern’s a handyman. You know, a jack-of-all-trades.”

“How did you find him?”

“He worked for a client of mine who sold his ranch.” One side of his mouth lifted. “I thought I’d give Ian a break.”

“He’ll appreciate that,” Ava said of her cousin, Jewel-Anne’s half brother. Ian wasn’t exactly a ball of fire. She walked to the end of the bed and held on to one of its tall posts. “You know, I’m surprised you’re here.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Almost. “I was on my way back anyway. Jacob was waiting with the launch.” Usually his sister’s chauffeur, Jacob had also been the driver assigned to Ava when her license had been taken away.

Wyatt added, “Khloe called my cell. Luckily I was nearly to Anchorville anyway.”

“Nice of her.”

His mouth twisted downward as if in distaste. “Listen to you. Khloe used to be your best friend.”

That much was true. “She’s the one who pulled away.”

“Did she?” He threw up his hands and shook his head. “Are you sure about that?” When she didn’t answer, he added with a trace of sarcasm, “Whatever you say. But Dr. McPherson’s on her way. You need to talk to her.”

“Whatever you say,” she mimicked, then hated the harsh sound of her words when she noticed a wounded light in his eyes.

“I give up.” He was out the door in seconds, and once again, her throat tightened.

“Me too,” she whispered. “Me too.”





“You know that you didn’t really see Noah.” Dr. McPherson was kind, if slightly patronizing. A pretty, slim woman, she wore a skirt and boots, her streaked hair brushing her shoulders, her gaze filled with concern. She seemed sincere and caring at times, yet, true to her paranoia, Ava didn’t trust her. Never had.

Now they were seated in the library, a room off the living area with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with old volumes and a fire that was glowing softly in the grate. Propane hissed softly as the wood stacked on ancient andirons caught fire.

“I saw him,” Ava insisted. She was seated on the worn couch, her hands fisted on her lap. “Whether he was there or not, I don’t know, but I saw him.”

“You know how that sounds.” Wyatt was standing in a corner, his tie loosened further, his expression dark.

“I don’t care how it sounds. That’s the way it is.” Ava met the concern in her husband’s eyes with simmering mutiny. “I thought I was supposed to be honest.”

“You are, you are,” Dr. McPherson said with a quick nod. Perched on the edge of the recliner that was wedged between the hearth and the couch, the firelight caught in her pale hair. Though her office was on the mainland, she often came to the island, a deal she’d worked with Wyatt. “Of course.”

Now Evelyn glanced over her shoulder at Wyatt, and for a split second Ava thought she saw a tenderness in her gaze, but it was quickly masked. Maybe she’d misread it.

“I think it might be best if we were alone,” the doctor suggested to Wyatt.

“It’s all right,” Ava said. “I don’t mind. Maybe we can turn this into a marriage counseling session instead of a determination to find out if I’m off the rails or not.”

“No one said anything about that,” Wyatt remarked. He walked to the fire and turned off the propane, and the flames withdrew, like frightened snails into their shells, leaving the mossy chunks of fir to glow a deep, pulsing red.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy. Nuts. Even to me, but I’m telling you, I saw my baby on the dock in the fog.” She wanted to add that she thought the medication she’d been given might have been the cause, but that would have made the doctor defensive, as she was the one who had prescribed the antianxiety pills.

Wyatt walked behind the couch, reached over, and squeezed her shoulder. Fondly? Or out of frustration? She looked up at him and saw nothing but concern in his expression. “You have to let go of your fantasies, Ava. Noah’s not coming back.” With that he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

The psychologist’s gaze followed after him; then when the door was shut, it turned back to her patient. “What do you think is going on here, Ava?” she asked.

“I wish I knew.” Ava glanced to the windows, dark with the night. “I wish to God I knew.”

Before they could really get into it, there was a tap on the door and Wyatt opened it again. “Thought you should know. Sheriff Biggs is here.”

“Why?” Ava asked.

“Khloe called him.”

“Because I jumped into the bay?”

“Yeah. She thought you might be attempting suicide.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Humor her. Biggs is her uncle.”

“Big deal.” Ava was having none of it. “What is this?” She looked from her husband to the psychologist. “Are you trying to get me committed?”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because just so you know, I don’t need to be on any suicide watch!”

“No one said a thing about—”

“You didn’t have to, Wyatt. Okay?” She was on her feet and out the door. “Where is he?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Great.”

She left him and the damned doctor to talk about her state of mind, or lack thereof, and walked through the formal dining room and butler’s pantry to the kitchen, the big warm room painted in shades of yellow, with the scent of coffee and baked goods always lingering in the air. The black-and-white tile floor was worn at the door to the back hallway, and the white cabinets were desperately in need of a new coat of paint, but this was, without a doubt, the cheeriest room in the house. Off to one side was a family area, with a couple of worn sofas, a flat-screen television, and toy box stuffed into a corner. This evening the air was thick with the warm scent of baking bread and the tangy aroma of Virginia’s clam chowder, Manhattan style.

Aptly named, Sheriff Biggs sat on one of the chairs tucked around a cracked marble-topped table. Spilling over the edges of the woven seat, he’d already accepted a cup of coffee from a grudging Virginia, who now was elbow-deep in dishwater and trying to appear as if she wasn’t interested in eavesdropping on the conversation about to ensue between her employers and Biggs, who just happened to be her ex-brother-in-law and Khloe’s uncle.

As ever, Virginia was wearing a plain housedress over her heavy frame, and a wildly colored apron was tied across her rounded abdomen and heavy breasts. Scuffed tennis shoes and dark tights completed the outfit. Ava had rarely seen her in any other attire, even years ago, before she’d been hired here, when she was just Khloe’s mother. How they’d all gotten entangled since those grade-school years . . .

“Hello, Ava.” Biggs stood and extended a hand, which she shook with more than a hint of trepidation. They’d met a few times before and never had it been under anything but tense circumstances.

“Sheriff.” She nodded and pulled her hand back. Hers was clammy; his was irritatingly cool.

“I heard you ended up in the drink,” he said, reseating his bulky form and cradling his cup. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he stared up at her. Then again, she and Biggs had never been friends. Especially not since her brother, Kelvin’s, death nearly five years earlier. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“It’s not a crime, is it?”

“To go for a swim?” he asked. “Naaah. ’Course not. But the folks here, they were concerned.” His face was fleshy, his cheeks showing a few capillaries that had burst, his deep-set eyes intense but not unkind. He motioned to the other people in the room. “They seemed to think maybe you were having a spell of some kind, or sleepwalking.”

“I called Joe,” Khloe piped in as she walked in from the porch, the new hire, Austin Dern, following after her.

Dern had changed, too. His dark hair was wet and slicked back from his face, and he wore a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, faded and dry. He caught her gaze with eyes the color of slate. Again, she felt as if she’d seen him before, in that weird déjà vu way, but try as she might, she couldn’t place him.

Khloe added, “I, uh, I thought we needed help.”

“So this is unofficial?” Ava asked, since Joe Biggs was Khloe’s uncle.

Biggs kept his eyes on Ava. “I just swung by ’cause Khloe called.”

“I was worried, that’s all,” Khloe interjected as Virginia, spying through the open door, scowled, grabbed a towel, and wiped her hands, then pulled the thick door to the porch shut forcefully, as if she were keeping in the heat and making sure whatever lurked outside didn’t get the chance to slip in.

Just swung by on a damned county-issued sheriff’s department boat on a foggy night? Because a relative called? Oh, sure. Ava wasn’t buying it. Even Virginia, now at the sink again, cast a disbelieving look over her shoulder.

Khloe seemed a little less prickly as she said, “Come on, Ava, if the roles were reversed and I ran outside in the middle of the night and jumped into the bay in November, you would have panicked, too. It’s not like when we were kids and snuck out to go skinny-dipping in the damned moonlight!”

In her mind’s eye, Ava saw them as they had been, years before, streaking down to the water’s edge as the moon cast a shimmering beacon of light across the calm sea. She and Khloe and Kelvin . . . God, what she would give to feel that carefree again.

Khloe was right.

Damn it.

Ava felt the weight of everyone’s gaze upon her. From Wyatt to Dern and even to Virginia, whose hands had quit rinsing the dishes, though they were plunged into the soapy water. Everyone waited.

“I made a mistake—that’s all.” Ava held her hands palm up, as if in surrender. There was just no reason to lie, and she wouldn’t have anyway. “I thought I saw my son on the end of the dock and ran out to save him. It . . . it turns out I must’ve been mistaken. And it’s not ‘the middle of the night.’ ” A small point, but valid.

“Feels like midnight,” Khloe grumbled.

“The boy’s been gone, what, nearly two years?” Biggs asked as Dr. McPherson slipped into the room to stand quietly near the pantry.

“Yes.” Ava’s voice was careful, her legs suddenly weak. She leaned against the refrigerator, hoping no one would notice. “But I’m fine now, Sheriff,” she lied, forcing a smile. “Thank you for your concern and your trouble coming all the way out here.”

“Not a problem.” But his eyes held hers, and she realized they were both lying. It really irked her to be so submissive, but she knew she had to play her cards carefully or she could end up in a hospital under observation, her mental stability in question.

Again.





Claiming a headache, which wasn’t a lie, Ava took dinner in her room, which, she decided, was probably the coward’s way out. Too bad. Having Biggs in the house was unsettling, though she couldn’t really name why. It wasn’t as if he was going to arrest her or anything, but she had the feeling that he, along with everyone else, was against her, or at the very least waiting for her to slip up, make a big mistake.

About what?

Don’t let your paranoia override your common sense.

“I’m not paranoid,” she whispered under her breath, then clamped her mouth shut. She couldn’t let anyone hear her talking to herself. No, that wouldn’t do. She needed to regroup and pull herself together and figure out who, if anyone, she could trust.

But as she dunked the crusty bread into Virginia’s spicy clam chowder and stared through the window to the dock, she found she had no appetite. On clear nights, from this window she was able to spy the lights of Anchorville on the far side of the bay, even watch traffic moving through the sleepy little town.

Chewing thoughtfully, Ava wondered why Khloe had rushed to call the sheriff. Not 911, but Biggs himself. Because he was her uncle? To avoid an unnecessary trip by the EMTs or to stave off a scandal or any embarrassment? That seemed unlikely.

She stared at the department-issued boat tied to the listing dock, barely visible in the fog.

“Odd,” she muttered as she shoved most of the chowder aside. But then everything was and gossip surrounding Church Island certainly wasn’t unheard of. In fact, scandal seemed as carved into the walls of this bit of land as surely as the coves and inlets that split the rugged stone outcroppings of the island. She felt a chill and found her sweater, a brown cardigan she’d had forever that she’d left on the foot of the bed. She slid her arms through the sleeves and pulled her hair out of the neckline before cinching the belt tighter around her waist.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of knuckles rapping against her door. “Ava?” The door opened and Khloe stuck her head into the room. “Hey, how’re you doing?”

“How do you think?” she demanded, her heart knocking wildly. God, she was a nervous Nellie.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” It was a lie. They both knew it. She settled back at the desk where the reddish broth was starting to congeal. “Why did you call Biggs?”

“I told you. I was worried!” Khloe admitted, rubbing her arms as if she, too, experienced a sudden chill. “God, it’s cold in here.”

“Always,” Ava said, “and you’re hedging.”

Khloe sat on the edge of the mattress. “What if . . . what if something had happened to you and we didn’t report it? You could’ve drowned. Passed out in the water. Been the victim of hypothermia or God knows what else.”

“I was okay.”

“You were alive. Barely. And really kind of out of it.” Thin lines of concern etched her forehead. “I probably really should have called nine-one-one, but I was afraid that they would haul you off and . . .” She shrugged her shoulders, then raked frustrated fingers through her short blue-black hair. “To tell you the truth, Ava, sometimes I just don’t know what to do.”

Neither did she. “I know.”

“So . . . since Uncle Joe is still here, why don’t you come down and talk to everyone? Show that you’re okay.”

“You mean fake it?”

“I mean stop acting crazy. Tell Joe and that psychologist that you know you didn’t see Noah.”

“But—”

“Shhh! Don’t argue.” Khloe’s big eyes implored her. “Just say you were confused, a little unclear because of the meds you’re on and that you realize you couldn’t have seen Noah.” She didn’t add that Ava acting calm and rational would probably help her case, that no one would send her off to some kind of psychiatric evaluation if she pulled this off . . . Oh, hell. “Joe is here unofficially, really. He came as a favor to me—”

“In a department-issued boat.”

“It was the fastest way over here. But, really, it’s more of a call to check up on you rather than anything remotely official. He even ate dinner with us.”

“Really?”

She lifted a slim shoulder. “I would just feel better, since I called him out here, if you’d show him that you’re . . .”

“Sane? Have my wits about me? Not suicidal?”

“Whatever. But, yeah.” She was nodding. “Just humor me, would you?”

It seemed there was no way around facing the sheriff again. “Fine. Just don’t be so quick to call the cavalry next time.”

“There’s not going to be a next time. Right?”

Let’s hope, Ava thought, but didn’t answer as she found a jacket hanging inside her closet and slipped her arms through its sleeves. “I think I’m lucky that Sea Cliff is closed. Otherwise Biggs might have hauled me up there.”

“Very funny,” Khloe said without the trace of a smile at the mention of the old mental hospital. An asylum for the criminally insane located on the southern tip of the island, Sea Cliff had been closed for a little over six years. Everyone at Neptune’s Gate had grown up within five miles of the hospital, which had been permanently closed after one of the most dangerous criminals in Washington State history, Lester Reece, had escaped the thick, crumbling walls and rusted gates of the facility.